


hating you is a self-defence mechanism

by IWillNotBeSilenced



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Jeez, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, K thinks smutty things, Kavinsky is so messed up man, M/M, Minor Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko, One-Sided Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, POV Joseph Kavinsky, Pines for Ronan, Street Racing, Violence, kisses and beats up his friends, mention of drugs, rovinsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWillNotBeSilenced/pseuds/IWillNotBeSilenced
Summary: He drowns it out with EDM and RPM but he knows that if he, or anyone, listened closer, in the early hours of the morning when the drugs are wearing off and lucidity creeps in and he is alone, they would hear his heart beat ‘/Lynch, Lynch, Lynch/.’





	hating you is a self-defence mechanism

Kavinsky paces his bedroom alternating between scowling at his phone and tossing it restlessly between his hands. He stumbles over Skov’s ankles where the other boy stretches out against Kavinsky’s bed and they curse at each other. The rest of the pack are spread out around his ridiculously oversized room. Jiang sits at the terminally unused desk, one leg pulled up to his chest, using the other to spin the chair back and forth. Swan is chain smoking near the closed window. Prokopenko sits, legs folded, on Kavinsky’s bed, elbows on knees, watching Kavinsky pace the room.

‘K.’ Prokopenko pipes up after Kavinsky has finished swearing at Skov, who gives just as good as he gets in rebuttal. 

‘What?’ Kavinsky rounds on him, eyes flicking around the room and back at his phone, muscles taut, agitated. 

‘Fucking stop pacing man, you’re giving me motion sickness.’

Kavinsky ignores him and strides past him again, kicking Skov’s legs this time so he pulls them up before he can trip over them again. 

‘Who are you waiting for, anyway?’ Jiang is chewing a thumbnail and asks the question disinterestedly. 

‘Who says I’m waiting for anyone?’ Kavinsky narrows his eyes at Jiang, smirking, which makes an odd juxtaposition of his face. That was Kavinsky; you never knew if you were meant to laugh or duck.

‘Bet it’s Lynch.’ 

Without missing a beat, Kavinsky turns and hurls his phone at Swan, who dodges, letting it glance of the window frame.

‘Watch it, man.’ Swan says, coolly. ‘Don’t want to get a draught.’

There’s a vein standing out in Kavinsky’s neck. Why does he put up with these mouthy fucks, anyway?

‘God, K. We don’t need him.’ Prokopenko sounds both exasperated and petulant. Then, with a laugh in his voice. ‘Besides, I’m so much more fun.’   
Kavinsky takes one step to close the distance between them and grabs Prokopenko by the throat before kissing him, forceful and rough, then shoving him away so that he falls backwards onto the mattress, catching himself on an elbow.

‘/You/ are.’ Kavinsky growls. 

Prokopenko swipes a thumb across his lower lip and laughs low in his throat. ‘Too fucking right.’ 

Swan snorts. ‘Jesus K, if you wanted to get in my pants too all you had to do was ask.’

Kavinsky whirls on him again and Swan holds his hands up. 

Kavinsky can’t explain what it is about Lynch that keeps him so strung out. It’s like the first time he got high, but every time he’s near. Seeing him in the BMW, low in his seat, bass thumping, makes something inside Kavinsky explode. Especially when he’s driving his boy-king. Or, God forbid, being driven by him. As if III can give him what he needs. He could have Kavinsky sitting shotgun, one arm out of the window and the other hand elsewhere, teeth on Lynch’s neck as he drives. God, if he had a dollar for every time he thought about marking up that beautiful white skin. Claiming it. Claiming him.

He wants Lynch behind the wheel of his car while he jerks him off. Wants to feel the car swerve under them as Kavinsky works him over. Wants his name on Lynch’s lips as he takes him over the edge. He imagines how much lower, ragged, breathless he could get him to sound than Proko. Proximity to Lynch gets him wired. Waiting for that proximity is like a fire under his skin. It burns. 

Racing, drugs, even Prokopenko. Kavinsky has plenty of ways to accelerate his heart rate. He drowns it out with EDM and RPM but he knows that if he, or anyone, listened closer, in the early hours of the morning when the drugs are wearing off and lucidity creeps in and he is alone, they would hear it beat ‘Lynch, Lynch, Lynch.’   
He hates himself. Ronan sees more than the substance abuse, the parties, the self-destruction, he knows. But he doesn’t see quite deep enough, doesn’t see that. Flesh, but not bone. 

His phone rings from the floor where it landed next to Swan. Kavinsky is over there and has it in his hand in seconds, faste than he generally moves when out of a car. He squints at the screen through his slightly hazy vision.

/Jiang/.

Across the room, Jiang holds his phone to his ear and shakes with barely contained laughter. Kavinsky strides across the room and punches Jiang neatly in the jaw, phone still in his hand, snapping Jiang’s head sideways and leaving an instant angry mark. Kavinsky gets right in his face and hisses, ‘Is that supposed to be funny, you fuck?’

Jiang, unbelievably, is still laughing. Kavinsky turns on his heel and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him and heading downstairs. He feels like doing lines off the Mitsubishi’s dash and then doing doughnuts in the driveway until he vomits Lynch’s name from his stomach. 

…

Kavinsky drives past Monmouth Manufacturing. He revs the engine, purposefully, aggressively. Turns around at the end of the street and flies by again. The third time, he slides sideways in the empty street so that his headlights glance off the BMW in a way that hits one of the warehouse windows. Turns around, blares his horn. Keeps going. 

He gets to the intersection before he hears the familiar rumble coming up on his left. The BMW’s headlights glint in Kavinsky’s mirror, temporarily blinding him. The black car comes up alongside the Mitsubishi, slowing just enough for Kavinsky to catch Lynch in the driver’s seat, windows down, flipping him the bird with bruised knuckles.

In the headlights, Kavinsky thinks Ronan might be laughing but he moves past and could be snarling, could be swearing. Kavinsky imagines he can hear him shout ‘piece of shit’, lost in the speed and the wind and the night. He thinks about putting a hand in his jeans. Instead, he floors the gas and tears off after the BMW and for now he can breathe he can breathe he can breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> This was heck of a lot grittier than my usual but it was SO MUCH FUN to write! Kudos and comments always appreciated! Also, thank you all so so much for all the love on my Pynch fics!! You're making a very stressed gal very very happy <3


End file.
